A Dose of Strong Painkillers
by Argentus 9
Summary: AU. An absolutely insane parody with a featured oddity of every character... how can you go wrong with a schizophrenic Hermione, psychopathic Dumbledore, and a defective clone of Harry himself?
1. Harry Potter aka Clone 69

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Harry Potter Taken With a Dose of Strong Painkillers

*** not actually advised 

**** __

A/N - Hello, and welcome to the depraved, cobwebbed depths of my mind. Do you like what I've done with the place? I think it's rather homey. Anyway, I have to get some necessities out of the way before we can press on...

(*)s indicate that I've taken a direct quote from J.K.R. her royal self. I utilised the few lines that the publishers revealed of HP and The Order of the Phoenix. I don't own the idea of Harry Potter or the world, all rights reserved to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Press, and Warner Bros. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and real persons is entirely coincidental... except in the case of Geraldo Rivera, Christina Agulira, John Lennon, George W. Bush, Mark Twain, and J. Lo. Yeah... except them. 

So this story is now AU. The whole things was based upon my interpretation of the summer after Fourth Year and now it's useless. I considered adapting the whole thing so that it would take place after Fifth Year, but I decided that was just too much work. So I'm leaving it the way it is and you'll just have to deal with it. Pretend that OotP never happened (I know that's difficult). 

A quick explanation of the title: besides (hopefully) catching your attention, the title has two other interpretations. I've warped the story SO much that I thought that it resembled what Harry Potter would appear like to a reader that had just overdosed on Perkoset (I have no idea how that's spelled). So, if you HAVE overdosed on Perkoset, you'll feel right at home here. The second meaning is a little more serious... sometimes I get to becoming a LITTLE too obsessed with Harry Potter and my shrink tells me that I need to take it a little lighter. So I wrote a parody (which I generally didn't used to approve of) in order to "kill the pain" and learn to laugh a little. You'll notice that if you read my other fics they're pretty depressing. So you see that I don't dislike Harry Potter at all. I'm not mocking it out of vindictiveness. Also, not all my motives are honourable. Humour fics get more reviews. Hint taken?

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1 - Harry Potter (a.k.a. Clone #69)

The hottest day of the summer so far is drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lies over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. The only person left outside is a teenage boy who is lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four. * 

Harry Potter tries for a seventeenth time to catch that damned fly that is hovering over him, and again misses. He sits up, covered in pollen, and is promptly set upon by a swarm of killer bees. He steps out of the flattened flower bed, casually brushing off the angry insects as his skin swells into great, red blisters. "HA! I SPIT WITH DISDAIN IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION, PUNY BEES! YOU CANNOT HARM ME! I AM THE BOY WHO LIVED!" he bellows, striking a superhero pose and prancing madly through the yard. 

"For plum pudding's SAKE! Shut the hell up, boy!" A cast iron frying pan catapults from a second story window and knocks out Harry. 

A little old lady, smelling of cabbage and cats, scuttles over from an undisclosed location somewhere on the other street. Dudley (now weighing in at a metric ton) had duct taped her mouth shut and tied both hands into a permanent "flipping off" position a few days earlier and no one has bothered to release her. She gently bends over Harry and... boxes his ears. "Mwuf oofh eef." 

"Mrs. Figg?" Harry mumbles, his eyes fluttering open. "ARE YOU FLIPPING ME OFF?" He sits up and sees the tape. "Um... ok." 

Mrs. Figg stands and performs an elaborate charade, mumbling behind the tape the whole time. "Mwuf oofh eef! Mwuf oofh eef!" She turns in a circle, stands on her head, pokes herself in the eyes with her only available fingers, does the splits, and even starts with a strip tease before Harry stops her. 

"WHAT IS IT GIRL? DUMBLEDORE'S COMING, YOU SAY?" He strikes another cheesy pose, his glasses hanging broken and twisted from one ear, his hair on end. "WAIT! HOW DO YOU KNOW DUMBLEDORE?! WHO WOULD EVER _THINK_ TO SUSPECT THAT YOU COULD _POSSIBLY_ BE A WITCH SENT TO BE MY GUARDIAN! Oh... that's pretty good. How stupid I've been..." Harry strikes the classic thinking pose. 

"I said SHUT UP, dammit!" a toaster flies from the window and collides with Mrs. Figg's shin.

"_Mwuf oofh eef_!"

Suddenly, Albus Dumbledore appears with a flash of sparkly pink smoke next to Harry. "Oh... God. Wait a minute..." he sighs. The Headmaster disapparates and quickly reappears in a cloud of lightning-crossed blue smoke. "Tsk. That always happens..." He brushes fuchsia dust from his robes. 

"PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE!" Harry cries. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" 

"Why are you covered in hives?" 

"I HAVEN'T AN IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT, PROFESSOR! I AM INVINCIBLE!" 

"Why are you speaking in capital letters?" 

"Er... doesn't it sound cool and heroic?" 

"No. Great bouncing ferrets, Arabella! What kind of a gesture is THAT?" 

"Mwuf oofh eef." She pulls some cheerleader moves, balances a golf ball on her nose, and smacks her own behind a few times. 

"Oh, well in that case..." 

The three stare at each other for a minute. Nothing happens. A light bulb flicks on over Dumbledore's head. "Oh right! Harry, this is urgent! Terribly urgent!" 

"DO NOT FEAR, PROFESSOR! I WILL SAVE THE DAY A FIFTH TIME! IT'S PRACTICALLY TRADITION!" 

Dumbledore gives him a quizzical look. "You DO know that you're not immortal or anything, right?" 

"What?" 

"Harry, I'm sorry. It is time for me to tell you what I should have told you five years ago. Please sit down. I am going to tell you everything." * 

Harry plops down into the grass. So does Mrs. Figg. Dumbledore looks exasperated. "Do you want to at least help me here?" he says to the old woman. She rolls her eyes, and gets up, imitating everything that the professor says in charade form. 

"Harry... this is going to be hard for you to comprehend. Don't panic... You're not really the boy who lived. You're one of his defective clones. That's why you have this volume problem. The REAL Harry Potter is in a cryogenically frozen tube orbiting the planet Uranus." 

"Harry" stares at Dumbledore. "BUT I'VE DEFEATED VOLDEMORT (hundreds of wizards all over Britain cringe and curl into the fetal position at the mention of his name) SO MANY TIMES. THAT CAN'T BE COINCIDENCE." 

"Er... actually... Clone #37 defeated Voldemort in Harry's 1st Year, Clone #109 defeated Voldemort in Harry's 2nd Year, Clone #14 dealt with Wormtail in Harry's 3rd Year, and Geraldo Rivera defeated Voldemort in Harry's 4th Year. You're Clone #69. You're not worth a rat's ass to anyone." 

"How did Geraldo Rivera pose as Harry Potter?" Clone #69 asks. 

"Who knows? How does he pull off posing as Christina Agulira, John Lennon, and George W. Bush either?" 

"JOHN LENNON'S DEAD."

"Oh right..." 

"Mwuf oofh eef!" Mrs. Figg sobs. She impersonates a Chinese crane, pulls at her bluish tinged hair, and turns an awkward somersault. 

"Good God, woman! You were John Lennon's lover?!" Dumbledore exclaims. 

"Mwuf oofh eef!" 

Clone #69 makes a face. Then a thought comes to him: "WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST CALL GERALDO RIVERA AGAIN?"

Dumbledore ponders. "Oh yes, I remember! He's rather busy. Stranded in the middle of a dust storm in the middle of Iraq or something, last time I heard... said so in his last post card... Ah! But the point IS, 69, that we need to bring back the REAL Harry Potter from his orbit around Uranus before the Dark Lord succeeds in his plan to sink the entire island of Britain into a sea of chocolate pudding!" 

"WHY CHOCOLATE PUDDING? WHY NOT PICKLE BRINE OR SOMETHING? PEOPLE LIKE CHOCOLATE PUDDING!" Clone #69 points out. 

"Yes... I wonder... well! I always thought Tom was a little... off. That's not the point! Before we go to Uranus, we need to gather a fellowship to go on this quest! We must collect the most valuable wizards and witches from around the world to accompany us! Are you with me, 69?!" Dumbledore cries, striking his own heroic pose though it looks even more ridiculous on him. 

"YES! BUT WHAT ABOUT SCHOOL? IT'S AUGUST... WE'LL MISS IT!" 

"Screw Hogwarts!" Dumbledore screeches. "Come, Arabella! Come, 69! Onward!" 

"Bloody Christ, will you SHUT UP down there!" An entire armoire is hurled out of the Dursleys' window and it knocks the 150-year-old Headmaster clear across the yard. 

__

A/N - *insane evil laugh* Until next time! Please R&R! 


	2. Mad Cow Disease and Possum Stew

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Harry Potter Taken With a Dose of Strong Painkillers

*** not actually advised

__

A/N - Hehe. Do they even have possums in England? I'm going to look that up. Well, it doesn't really matter. I'm not into the facts here or anything... I also misrepresented Mad Cow Disease. *insane evil laugh* 

Well, I promise that this story will actually have a plot sometime soon, but as of Chapter 2 it's still just kind of hanging out in Limbo. Ah, yes, a plot... the rabid plot bunnies have been stalking me an awful lot lately. I'm getting on it, I swear! Ahhh! No, don't hurt me! Stop taunting me with those fluffy tails! *scream, gurgle*. Okay, that was admittedly pointless. 

By the way, I really don't see the Weasleys in this light at all. I love the Weasleys. It's all for the sake of laughs. 

****

2 - Mad Cow Disease and Possum Stew

Clone #69, still unable to come to terms with the fact that he is not superhuman, runs to the incapacitated Dumbledore and attempts to single-handedly heave the armoire off of him. It doesn't budge. 

After nearly ten minutes, a dim candle flicks on over Clone #69's head and he magicks the armoire off the Headmaster. There is a large dent surrounded by protruding ribs in Dumbledore's chest. He sits up, looking at the damage done and promptly pinches his own nose as smoke pours from his ears. The dent inflates, and they continue on their quest... First stop: the Weasleys.

A few hours later, Albus Dumbledore, Clone #69, Arabella Figg and her trusty sidekick Tibbles the Mighty can be found on a hot, dirty Muggle bus on their way to Ottery St. Catchpole. 

"Cow." Dumbledore points, his eyelids drooping with boredom. 

"Mwuf oofh eef." 

"Oh, you're right... two cows." 

"Mew." 

"Why, Tibbles, how observant! Yes, they ARE foaming at the mouth! Holy onions! They're stark raving MAD! Look, they're chasing after the bus now! Crap, that's fast..." 

Clone #69 is leaning against the window pane with his eyes closed, a streak of drool running down the glass. 

A scratchy smoker's voice can be heard making an announcement, "Ladies and gents, *cough*, we'll be arriving at *wheeze* Ottery St. *hack* Catchpole in approximately *rasp* 27 days, fourteen hours, nine *gasp* minutes, and 51 seconds." A charbroiled lung splatters on the windshield. 

"Well! I think this is our stop, my good people! We'll just walk the rest of the way easily!" Dumbledore exclaims, putting a go-go-booted foot through the window. All four of them leap out of the moving vehicle. 

"I CAN FLY! I CAN FLY!" Clone #69 crows, flapping his arms psychotically just before he makes contact with the ground among the rest of them. The satanic, diseased cows trample them into the dust and manure on the side of the road. It's a rather pathetic scene.

"HA! I SPIT WITH DISDAIN IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION, PUNY COWS! YOU CANNOT HARM ME! I AM THE BOY WHO LIVED!" Clone #69 screams after the stampeding cows, his right arm hanging by a single tendon. 

"I thought that we had established that you weren't Harry Potter, 69," Dumbledore says, extracting himself from a stand of cacti, which, of course, are PERFECTLY at home in southwest Britain. "Flaming toadstools! Your arm!" 

"TIS MERELY A FLESH WOUND!"

"Er... right." 

Mrs. Figg displays both hands to the cows and bus as they diminish in the distance. 

Decades later, sweaty and bedraggled, the company is approaching the road leading up to the Burrow. "IT LOOKS A LITTLE BIT DIFFERENT AROUND HERE..." Clone #69 observes. The ground just off the path is sunken, boggy and occasionally a mysterious slime bubble pops. The trees are covered in Spanish moss. They pass an old river steamboat permanently lodged in the muck. 

"Excuse me, sir... could you tell us the way to the Weasley home?" Dumbledore asks of an old gentleman with wild white hair aboard the steamboat. 

"It's just yonder!" he says, crossing his arms and pointing in both directions. "I'm on my way to Antarctica myself!" 

"Why thank you!" 

"Mwuf oofh eef?" Mrs. Figg raises her eyebrows, knocks her knees together, and snorts through her nose. 

"No... I don't think that was Mark Twain..." Dumbledore ponders.

They walk on for a bit and then Dumbledore shivers. "I'll tell you one thing: the last think I want to hear wandering around out here is the "Deliverance" theme song..." 

Harry grins wickedly, sneaks up behind the headmaster and shrieks, "SQUEEEEAL!" 

Dumbledore promptly turns and slaps him. 

They see an old rickety bridge that crosses low over the muddy road. Fred and George sit on it, bare feet swinging over the side. They're dressed in rolled up patched overalls and Fred is "playing" a banjo with no strings. "GEORGE! FRED!" 

George grins at Clone #69, revealing a single tooth. 

"Mew." 

"Yes, I like the new look also, Mighty Tibbles," Dumbledore remarks.

Just as they finally approach the Burrow, the top floor, apparently held on by ancient chewing gum alone, topples off the back of the house. "THAT'S GOTTA SUCK," Clone #69 says. 

"Quite, old chap." 

"Mew." 

Suddenly, Molly Weasley appears on the laundry draped porch. She bangs on a frying pan furiously and shrieks out an impressive hog call. Eight figures apparently appear out of nowhere. "Grub's up!" 

"GREAT! I LOVE MRS. WEASLEY'S COOKING!" Clone #69 exclaims, running forward, trailing the others. 

"Who in the name of sacred frogs are you?" Mrs. Weasley asks. 

"DON'T YOU RECOGNISE ME? I'M HARRY POTTER!"

"No, he's not, he's --" 

"Don't you YELL at me, boy! Where are your MANNERS!" Molly shouts, whacking Clone #69 upside the head with a big rusty soup ladle. He collapses and is set upon and nearly licked to death by 72 mangy bloodhounds. 

"Alby! Come in, I think that we'll have plenty for a few more!" Mr. Weasley says heartily, shaking Professor Dumbledore's hand furiously. 

"What did I TELL you about thinking, Arthur?!" Molly deals her husband a smart whack with the ladle. 

Someone thinks to drag Clone #69 into through the doorway (door itself having fallen off a few years earlier, never to be replaced) and they kick their way through chickens and general squalor to the kitchen. Clone #69 awakens just in time to see Ron, wearing a frilly tutu over his hand-me-down overalls, prance energetically through the back door. 

"RON! HI!" Clone #69 cries, jumping up, trailing hound slobber. 

"Harry!" Ron jumps onto the table and performs a pirouette of celebration. "It's so great to see you!" 

"He's not Harry, he's --" 

"Shh, shh, shh! ZIP IT! It's time for a nice dinner!" Mrs. Weasley. "And ya'll shut up and ENJOY IT! Slaving over a hot stove all damn day... no respect 'round here..." Molly Weasley slams a monstrous cauldron down, slopping a weird grey broth on the table. 

"POSSUM STEW! DIG IN!" 

The entire family descends upon the slop like hyenas in a feeding frenzy, without the aide of spoons or bowls. 

"Er... this is not exactly --" Professor Dumbledore pauses to delicately wipe a splattered wad of mysterious meat from his spectacles. "I think I need to explain --" 

Even Tibbles the Mighty gags and runs, hissing, from the room when she licks a bit from the table. 

Later, after Professor Dumbledore had repeatedly tried to explain their reason for coming, Tibbles had vomited on various household items, and Mrs. Weasley had dealt Mrs. Figg numerous blows for her apparently obscenity, everyone settles in the parlour. 

Ron runs into the grandfather clock for a fourth time in mid-leap. "Do you like the tutu, Harry? Do you? Huh? Do you?" he asks. 

"ER... SURE, CHUM." Clone #69 answers, making a face when Ron turns. 

_"Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got! I'm still-- I'm still Ginny from the block! Used to have a little, now I have a LOT, but I still know where I came from!"_

Charlie knocks Ginny from the stairs which she has been performing the length of in mid-note. "You're not J. Lo, butt-face." 

"Charlie called me butt-face again!" 

Everyone: "Shut up, Ginny." She whines, runs to her room, rips down posters of flowers and boy bands, paints the whole room black, lights some ritual candles, and immediately starts planning her evil plot to take of the world in retribution for a tragic childhood. 

Meanwhile, Dumbledore again tries to explain their quest. "Please! Listen! Harry-- I mean Clone #69-- Arabella, and I are starting a "Fellowship" to save the world from the Dark Lord!" he cries, waving his hands. 

"What?" Everyone produces their scripts from strange places such as under the couch cushions and in pants legs, flips through them, and sighs. "Oh, I thought we might have accidentally wandered onto The Lord of the Rings set..." muttered George. "Never mind." 

"No! We've got to get the REAL Harry Potter from a cryogenically frozen tube orbiting Uranus before You-Know-Who sinks all of Britain in a sea of chocolate pudding! This "Harry" is just a clone! We need people to help us! Will anyone come?" 

Silence. Crickets. 

Ron stands. "Alright. I understand that you won't be able to do this without me. How could the fellowship function without the greatness of the dance to entertain them?! Got to keep morale up!" He does a back flip, knocking over a tower of playing cards which explodes and sets Mr. Weasley's shoes afire. No one notices. 

"Hm. Okay. Have fun, son," Mrs. Weasley says, returning to knitting a neon orange thirteen-yard-long scarf. Everyone returns to whatever they were doing. 

"I GUESS WE'LL BE GOING THEN..." Clone #69 says to the Weasleys.

Professor Dumbledore, Mrs. Figg, Clone #69, Mighty Tibbles, and Ron leave, unnoticed. 

"WHERE ARE WE GOING NOW?"

"I've got a throbbing toothache. Where might I find a dentist? Ah! I know! Granger D.D.S.! We might as well fetch Hermione while we're at it..." Professor Dumbledore rubs his cheek and winces. 

__

A/N - Well, somehow I don't like that one as much as the first one. R&R anyway. I command you. *insane evil laugh*. I have many wonderful things in store. 

By the way, if you didn't get the "Deliverance" allusion, that's probably a good thing. 


	3. Narcotics Can Be Fun

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Harry Potter Taken With a Dose of Strong Painkillers

*** not actually advised

__

A/N - Chapter 3 has arrived! For two reasons: 1. I felt really guilty for ignoring my fics for so long (the rabid plot bunnies are really good at inflicting that "guilt") and 2. I was inspired by many amusing situations that happened to me in real life. These inspirations were aided by the copious consumption of Pixie Stix. *insane evil laugh*. 

The reader should be warned of something very imperative: that bits and pieces of the following chapter were written in an absolutely CHIC truckstop Burger King® in someplace called Vermilion County, Illinois. I assure you that this dining experience comes only out of the fact that there is NOTHING ELSE in Vermilion County, Illinois and that I am being dragged, against my will and better judgement, through most of the Midwest on a FASCINATING road trip. Shoot me dead. Oh, there are so many eligible (overweight, balding, tattoo-ridden, reeking) bachelors in here that I can hardly contain my wild passion. I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby. Hehe. There are two billboards outside that I can see. The following is true, I swear to you: the first sign is for "Professional Vasectomy Reversal" and the second is for "DNA Testing: Call 1-800-R-U-MY-KID". Is satiric comment even required on that one? *beats head on imitation wood, sticky table*. 

Well, I could entertain you with this gripping dissertation for another 300 miles or so to Iowa, but I'll spare your sanity. Mine, however, was left in a dingy deep-fryer at Burger King®. Await the grand literary genius that this will surely bring. 

Oh, and narcotics aren't really a good thing. The [*** not actually advised] warning applies to that as well. 

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3 - Narcotics Can Be Fun 

That whirring sound of a drill that everyone's nightmares are plagued with sounds for a sixth time. Black clouds of smoke rise from Professor Dumbledore's gaping mouth and he squeaks in pain through the massive amounts of dental apparatus shoved in his mouth. 

"Almost finished," murmurs Mrs. Granger, twiddling with the bit of another drill and plunging it straight into an open oral nerve. Dumbledore screams and kicks Mr. Granger, who is standing at his feet, in the general groin area. 

Mr. Granger hops away. "Damn... sixth time today! Christ, at this rate I've _got_ to be sterile..." 

Albus Dumbledore is sprawled out on the kitchen table in the Grangers' modest Muggle house in Winchester. "REMIND ME AGAIN WHY WE'RE GIVING HIM A ROOT CANAL RIGHT HERE IN HERMIONE'S HOUSE?" Clone #69 "whispers" to Mighty Tibbles. 

"Mew." 

"OH, RIGHT. THANKS." 

Mrs. Granger extracts her tools from Professor Dumbledore's mouth and he sits up, blood dripping all down his front. "Ah! Dat's bebber! No baim at all!" He promptly passes out. 

"Hmm... well, that will happen sometimes," Mrs. Granger says, scratching her bushy head. "I think I'll just give him a dash of Novacaine. And a dash of Morphine. And a dash of Heroin." She injects the previously stated drugs directly into his circulatory system. Professor Dumbledore twitches. 

Meanwhile, Clone #69 is playing with the x-ray machine (which... er... happens to be installed in their kitchen...). "WHOO! LOOK AT THIS!" He wiggles his fingers in front of the ray-gun-like machine and watches the picture of his bony hand waving to him on the screen. 

"Bloody brilliant!" exclaims Ron. 

"OY, LET'S SEE IF I CAN X-RAY MY BUM..." Clone #69 begins to climb on the counter in order to focus the machine on his rear end. He starts to lose his balance and snatches at anything in his grasp to catch himself. He succeeds only in bringing down the kitchen cabinets, x-ray machine, and portions of the ceiling with him. Ron, Mrs. Granger, Mrs. Figg, and Mighty Tibbles stare at the pile of rubble, the defective clone lodged beneath it all.

"Mwuf oofh eef!"

Mrs. Granger whips out a calculator and frantically punches in some numbers. "You owe me 1,397 pounds and 14 pence for that." 

Clone #69 crawls from the wreckage. "HA! I SPIT WITH DISDAIN IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION, PUNY ARCHITECTURAL INFRASTRUCTURE! YOU CANNOT HARM ME! I AM THE BOY WHO LIVED!" He shakes his fist at the ceiling. 

"Er... money?" prompts Mrs. Granger, extending her hand. 

"RANDOM ACTS OF STUPIDITY ARE MY SPECIALTY, MA'AM! HERE'S YOUR REIMBURSEMENT." Clone #69 hands her the money, complete with exact change. 

"Let's go find Hermione," says Ron. "Think she's a fan of ballet?" 

"MAYBE..." 

Trudging upstairs, Ron and Clone #69 come to a door which is covered in posters which would seem to have come from Seventeen magazine, except that that the grinning features of Justin Timberlake, Josh Hartnett, Usher, and Orlando Bloom have been pasted over with the faces of Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, Nelson Mandela, and William Shakespeare. 

"That's kind of weird..." says Ron, poking at the posters. 

"YEAH, THE WAY SHE PASTED OVER THEM?" 

"No, I mean they don't even _move_." 

"RIGHT." 

Ron (with an artistic flourish) knocks on Hermione's door and it opens. 

"Oh, hello! How lovely to see the two of you again!" She looks to be her normal self. Her curly hair is braided, she's wearing jeans, and she's holding a thick book. The only suspicious element about her lies in that her T-shirt bears the legend: "I (heart graphic) JOHN NASH". 

"I have to warn the two of you before we go any farther here," she says. "Just recently, I've been suddenly struck with a terrible case of schizophre--" 

Suddenly, her arms spasm and she goes cross-eyed. A second later, she looks back at them. "Harry! Why are you so far away? Goodness, you're just a speck of dust!" she staggers forward, arms outstretched, and runs into Clone #69. "What? How did you get right back here a foot in front of me?" She feels Clone #69's face with her hands, looking quite insane. 

"You know, I don't think she has any sense of size or depth perception, mate," says Ron. 

Hermione looks toward him. "Your nose is _huge_!" 

Ron looks self-conscious for a moment. Just then, Hermione spasms again. "You see?! It happens every few minutes! I've got no control over it! All these crazed personalities just--" 

She twitches. "Have either of you seen a toucan around here? I know he's near." They boys stare at her, bewildered. "_For God's sake_! I just need a toucan! Is that so difficult for you to understand?!" She grabs Ron by the collar and shakes him violently. 

"HERMIONE! STOP!" 

"Oh, you're right, Harry... what have I been doing? I'm really sorry..." She shakes her head. "I told you I can't help it." 

"That's alright. Listen, Hermione, we've got a lot to tell you before you zone out again," Ron says quickly. "This isn't really Harry. It's a clone of him. We've come here with Dumbledore and some others and we're setting out on a quest to find the _real_ Harry Potter who's lost in space somewhere in a cryogenically frozen tube. And we've got to do it all this summer before You-Know-Who sinks England in a sea of chocolate pudding!" 

"So you're saying that the real Harry is sort of like Dr. Evil? Is his shuttle in the shape of a Big Boy? And will we have to dress as sixties swingers? And will a hairy Mike Myers be wearing any British flag undergarments or wielding any Swedish-made pe--"

"What?" 

"You really must be educated in the trivia of Muggle cinema, Ron." 

At that point, Mrs. Figg waddles upstairs. "Mwuf oofh eef." She does an Irish jig, knocks her head against the wall, and wiggles her ears. 

"WHAT? DUMBLEDORE'S UP? LET'S GO!" 

The trio thunders down the stairs and back to the kitchen where Professor Dumbledore is sitting up, muttering groggily. 

"Ah, Griss Manger. I trust that you've been purformed of our inpose?" His face is swollen to twice its normal size and his eyes are somewhat bloodshot. 

"Oh, yes, Professor." She jumps and her eyes slide out of focus. "Did you know that a butterfly tastes through its feet? Or that hippopotami kill more people in Africa than any other wild animal? Or that Ron's nose looks really big when your retinas are dysfunctional?" 

"Er... no." 

Hermione pauses. "Now what were we saying? Oh, yes... this quest. Is there anyone else we have to get before we continue?" 

"Yes, lactully." Dumbledore stops, looking at his hands as if they are foreign objects that just happen to be attached to his arms. 

"I think I may have gone a bit overboard with the pain relievers..." says Mrs. Granger, leaving to go review the malpractice laws and worry. 

"PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE? WHO?" 

"Ah... Snofessor Prape." 

"NOOOOOOOO!" Clone #69 throws up his hands, screws up his eyes and generally looks dramatic. 

"Is it really bat thad?" 

"NO... I GUESS NOT. WHERE'S HE LIVE ANYWAY? I NEVER REALLY PICTURED HIM DOING ANYTHING OUTSIDE HOGWARTS." 

"Oh, you'll see." Dumbledore staggers to his feet, crashing into the waste basket, strewing garbage all over the kitchen. "Come, 96, Wister Measley, Griss Manger, Barella, Bittles! To setch Feverus!" 

He lurches forward and heads out the front door, company in tow. As they set out across the lawn, Hermione jerks. "Oh, no..." whispers Ron. 

"Where's my toucan, you bastards?! I command you to find it! FROOT LOOPS!" 

__

A/N - Anyone know why I've been putting this story in present tense? I have no idea either, but it's screwing me up. I keep switching back and forth... 

And I KNOW that that's not how schizophrenia works. But it doesn't matter because this is my cracked-out parody and the facts really don't matter. Hermione's going to have four distinct personalities. You've seen three. *evil laughter*. 

And, yes, EVERY chapter will be complete with an exclamation of "HA! I SPIT WITH DISDAIN IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION, PUNY ________". Expect more of it. 

P.S. My sincere apologies if you are from Vermilion County, Illinois. 

****


End file.
